


Flash Flood

by tigerlady (shetiger)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Old West, Original Character Death(s), Post-Series, Prisoner transport, on the trail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetiger/pseuds/tigerlady
Summary: Chris and Ezra escort a particularly annoying prisoner to trial, and run into trouble along the way.(It turns out pretty swell.)
Relationships: Chris Larabee/Ezra Standish
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	Flash Flood

**Author's Note:**

> This is the other story I started a couple years ago, inspired by a trope bingo prompt of 'huddling for warmth.' There's a bit of that in here, but mostly the story went its own way.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to kageygirl for her wonderful betaing skills, as well as support. <3

The word 'uncouth' was far too limited a descriptor to completely encompass the disaster that was Elias Pritchard. Ezra had spent the past hour or so contemplating synonyms as they plodded along the hardpan, paralleling the mountain range they'd descended from this afternoon, but he'd yet to find a label more appealing. Indeed, Pritchard was 'uncivilized.' The continued attempts at hawking mucus from his throat, despite the lack of a single drop of moisture in the air anywhere from here to the banks of the Rio Grande, was more than enough proof that Pritchard met that definition. As well as that of 'boorish.' Not to overlook foul-mouthed, unkempt, and generally disagreeable from head to tail. Ungentlemanly. Ungenteel. Crass, ill-bred, and rude.

"I'm just sayin'," Pritchard said, pausing to saw at his own throat yet again. "Ya dress mighty fine for a lawman, that's all. Now I've seen some fancy ladies, of course. But they earned the money for those clothes, fair and square, on their backs."

Rude. Definitely rude. Ezra didn't bother to register his disbelief that any prostitute, fancy or otherwise, would let Pritchard within spitting distance. Instead, he kept his eyes forward, face blank, ignoring the way Pritchard had twisted around in the saddle to leer at him. In another situation, Ezra might have spun some silvery oration about how a gentleman was never less than well-dressed, but here and now, there was no need to bother. 

It wasn't merely that Pritchard was unworthy of any response. Rather, Ezra knew that his companion didn't need to hear one. If Chris had caught the less-than-subtle innuendo Pritchard had been hurling Ezra's way all afternoon, then so be it. Somehow, over the past several years, they'd worked their way from a precarious détente to an edgy friendship to...whatever it was that had taken root between them now. 

"I'm just sayin', Larabee. I heard that boy sheriff say how much pay you seven get. I'd guess our fancy man here's gotta be earning his fancy clothes the same way as all those fancy ladies do."

Chris wheeled his big black around. Pritchard's horse, a mellow hack quite undeserving of the burden it bore, pulled up short. It crow-hopped in protest, nearly flinging Pritchard clean off its back. It might have succeeded, if it weren't for Pritchard's shackled wrists hooked around the saddle horn.

Once it was clear that they weren't going to have to fish their prisoner out of the scrub, Ezra shifted his focus to Chris.

Lord. Now _that_ man knew how to sit a horse.

"What exactly were you _just sayin'_ , Pritchard?" Chris let his right hand drift from where it had been resting easily on his thigh. He didn't actually make any move towards his gun, but the threat was obvious. "All I've heard all day is you babbling about how good lookin' Ezra is. One might say a fixation like that sounds a bit...funny."

Ezra would have paid real money to see the look on Pritchard's face. Even so, he drew great satisfaction from the way Pritchard's shoulders went stiff at Chris's words. Pritchard hawked yet again, then turned his head as if to spit.

"Don't." Chris didn't shift a muscle. Instead, it was as if the shade of the Grim Reaper looked out from behind his eyes. Ezra had seen Chris like this before, of course, preparing to draw down on a man he judged no longer worthy to live. But he was shocked to see that look on his face now. Pritchard was uncouth, yes, and a foul, hardened criminal to boot, but he wasn't a murderer—and Judge Travis wanted him alive to testify against his own gang.

Pritchard swallowed audibly. He turned his head to face forward once more, slumping in his saddle as he did so, clearly cowed.

After a moment, Chris nodded, casually dropping his right hand back down to rest on his thigh. He clucked his tongue, guiding his horse back a couple paces, and then arched his eyebrow at Pritchard. Pritchard took the cue, urging his horse back into a slow amble, shoulders hunched as he eased past Chris.

As soon as Pritchard was clear, all the shadows dropped off of Chris's face. The corners of his lips turned up as he looked to Ezra, amusement twinkling in his eyes. 

Ezra caught his breath. The whole thing had been a…. 'Joke' wasn't the right term. Ezra's internal lexicon came up blank, emptied of every word by the realization that Chris had drawn that black specter of death around himself to intimidate Pritchard...merely because the man had been bothering Ezra all day.

Ezra felt heat rise in his throat and his cheeks. Chris's small smile transformed into a full-fledged, eye-crinkling smirk. He turned his horse in an unnecessarily wide circle, the movement bringing him close enough to Ezra that when he leaned in, their shoulders almost brushed.

Pritchard let out an obnoxiously loud burst of flatulence.

Chris closed his eyes, breathing out hard through his nose in a manner not dissimilar to that of a raging bull.

"Travis wants him alive," Ezra said, as much to remind himself as Chris.

"I just keep telling myself that tomorrow we'll be done with him." Chris's lips quirked, his eyes softly amused when he opened them again. "That, and there'd better be a decent hotel with a mighty fine steak at the end of this trail."

"Mmm," Ezra agreed. "And while we're imagining, I'll add a bottle of any decent vintage, and a fresh feather bed."

"As long as you're buying," Chris said with a wink. He sat back into his saddle and clucked his tongue, moving out to catch up with Pritchard before Ezra could come up with a response.

'Temptation.' _That_ was the word that fit one Chris Larabee, and Ezra wasn't sure if he was entirely equipped to make it through this journey without giving in to the serpent's voice in his head. With a heavy sigh, he set his own horse back into motion, and returned to the thesaurus in his head.

* * *

The full moon was a blessing for keeping watch. Chris let his gaze flit from blue-washed bush to blue-washed bush, picking out details to keep himself awake. Here, a cluster of agave that looked ready to send up a shoot. There, a pair of tiny eyes peering out from under a clump of sagebrush. The night-cool air chafed his hands, but Chris didn't bother to pull them under his serape. The bite in his fingers was enough, for the moment, to balance out the heat from the small campfire at his back. In a while, he'd get up and walk around; less to check for possible intruders, and more to stir his blood. For now, though, he was content to stay where he was, perched on a semi-comfortable boulder as Ezra slept on at his feet.

Ezra had only dropped off about half an hour ago. It always took him a while to settle, the quest for sleep not helped by his usual grumbling about being made to sleep during first watch. His annoyance amused Chris every time, even more so than it had the first time he'd made Ezra do it. Over the years, Chris had gotten to know him well enough to realize that more than half the complaints that came out of his mouth were purely for show. Those tended to be the ones laden with excessively elaborate vocabulary. Chris's own natural inclination was to be more sparing in speech, but sometimes he couldn't help but stir the pot. Poke the bear with a stick, just to hear how sweetly he'd roar.

The rest of Ezra's complaints, of course, he was deadly serious about. An early bedtime was definitely in that category—despite the fact that he knew and understood Chris's logic. Ezra could wake up out of a dead sleep in the middle of the night faster than anybody Chris had ever met, but once he'd settled in towards morning, he preferred to keep sleeping, no matter how strongly the sun was shining or the number of boot tips he received to his ribs. Chris tended to the opposite, his body more primed to start the day the closer it got to dawn.

He caught a quick flash of light out of the corner of his eye. Chris was already standing, hand curled around his Colt, before he realized all he'd glimpsed was lightning, flaring above the western range. He dropped his hand, but he kept his gaze fixed until it forked across his vision one more time. The storm was to the north of them, then, by a fair number of miles. Rains could last a few days when they came, rare as they were, but he was fairly sure they'd reach their destination before they encountered this one's path.

Chris started to fold himself back down onto the boulder, but Ezra stirred a bit, snuffling like he was feeling the cold. He'd shifted in his sleep while Chris's attention was elsewhere, leaving his shirt-clad shoulder exposed. Chris hesitated, taking stock of Ezra's guns. The rig was off for the night, set aside to prevent damaging the contraption while he slept. He was still wearing his holsters, but only the Remington was housed in its place. The Colt would still be at hand, of course, and that was the real danger, since Chris couldn't spot it anywhere.

But...Ezra was the one who'd picked the spot between the fire and boulder, waiting to bed down until after Chris had chosen this particular seat.

He took care as he crouched down, but not so much care as to seem like he was sneaking. It was simple enough to tug the warm wool jacket back up over Ezra's shoulder. He drew his hand back slower than he needed to, and didn't move off until Ezra sighed softly, his fist relaxing away from his chest.

A groan from Chris's other side had him on full alert. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, willing away the night blindness that was a result of his indulgence with Ezra, too much time spent with the fire in his line of sight. Another groan, and Chris was striding towards Pritchard before he was sure he could actually see.

"What're you bellyaching for?" he whispered, harsh as he could manage it while keeping Ezra's peaceful rest in mind.

Pritchard moaned again. He was indeed curled around his belly, clutching at himself like he'd been gutshot. Chris was tempted to give him a good swift kick until he answered, just for the way he'd needled Ezra for a good part of the day. Lucky for Pritchard, he rolled half over, the whites of his eyes bright in the moonlight as he stared up at Chris.

"My guts are on fire," he whispered back. "I don't know what was in those beans you fed me, but they're like to kill me."

"There was nothing wrong with those beans," Chris said. "Ezra and I are both fine."

"Well, you must have poisoned mine, then." Pritchard writhed and flailed until he'd managed to get himself into a sitting position. "I'm telling you, Larabee. If you don't help me up, and fast, you're gonna be living with shit for the rest of this little excursion of ours!"

Chris sighed. He was more than half-tempted to ignore him. His instincts were telling him that whatever Pritchard was full of, it wasn't poisoned beans. If Chris were wrong, it wouldn't be any skin off his nose if Pritchard did wind up riding in his own shit tomorrow. Of course, then he'd have to live with Ezra's bitching and moaning about the stench.

"Fine." Chris grabbed hold of one of Pritchard's arms and hauled him upright. The man wouldn't be able to get up to much mischief with the shackles on anyway. "Do your business and shut up about it."

He marched Pritchard away from their camp, towards a small stand of sagebrush that he'd be able to remember clearly in the light of day. He had no intention of stumbling through Pritchard's mess after they broke camp tomorrow, after all.

Pritchard had the audacity to extend his wrists. "Come on, Larabee. You can't expect me to take a shit like this."

"I can, and you will, or you can sleep in it for all I care."

Pritchard frowned sourly, but then he turned away and shuffled behind one of the bushes. Chris shifted his weight from hip to hip as Pritchard's grunts and groans increased. He'd babysat enough criminals through their bodily needs to be more than used to it, but that didn't mean he actually enjoyed the experience.

"Jesus God," Pritchard swore. "Lord, just get me through this and I pledge a virtuous life from now on."

Chris huffed. "Save your breath for finishing up. I'm not waiting on you all night."

"Just. A little bit. _Ugh._ " Pritchard let out a low grunting cry that almost had Chris wincing in sympathy. A few more grumbles and curses later, Pritchard shuffled back out from behind the scrub, still half-bent over his gut. He lurched forward a few steps, stumbling a bit as he approached Chris.

"Christ," Chris muttered, one hand out to catch the man if he tipped over. 

Pritchard was a piece of work, no doubt, just about as unlikeable as any Chris had ever met, but he'd never been violent. A thief and a coward, definitely, but it was the rest of his gang who were truly despicable—which was why he didn't see it coming when Pritchard abruptly straightened and swung the dangling metal shackle right up into Chris's temple.

Chris was on his hands and knees before he realized he'd fallen. He swore as he tried to stand but only wound up closer to the ground. Pritchard had rung his bell good. Chris could hear him escaping, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance. 

He shook his head hard, once, and nearly fell down again as a result. It seemed to help clear his thoughts, though. He managed to get one foot out in front of him, keeping the other knee down on the ground so he was stable enough to fumble his gun out of its holster. Pritchard hadn't made it as far as Chris had assumed, clearly visible under the strong moonlight. Chris squeezed one eye shut and fired—though he knew as soon as he pulled the trigger that his shot was wide.

He was taking aim again, trying to compensate for his double vision, when Ezra pounded past him, strong arms and legs pumping. Chris swore and pulled up, not about to risk hitting Ezra. His brains finally unscrambled enough once he'd clambered all the way back to his feet to realize that the reason Ezra wasn't taking his own shots was because Travis wanted Pritchard alive to testify.

Huffing out a breath, Chris staggered forwards, hands braced against his thighs for the first few steps. Pritchard seemed to stumble and fall, but when Ezra did the same thing thirty seconds later, Chris realized they'd disappeared over a ridge of some kind.

"Ah, hell," he muttered, and pushed himself into an unsteady run.

By the time he reached the edge of the ridge, the exercise and the cool night air had done wonders for the state of his head. He drew his gun again as he spotted Pritchard, several yards ahead of Ezra. Travis had said he wanted the man alive; he hadn't, however, specified anything about the man's ability to walk. Chris took stock, fighting against his double vision, and set his finger against the trigger.

Ezra took a flying leap and tackled Pritchard to the earth.

"Shit!" His reflexes were good enough still that he didn't pull, but the close call had his heart racing. He took off, shoving the Colt back into his holster. There was no way he was going to be able to get a clean shot, not with the way Pritchard and Ezra were wrapped around each other.

They were all-out brawling now, no finesse to it as they rolled and wrestled, each trying to get the upper hand. Ezra let out a loud grunt as Pritchard clipped him with an elbow. None of them were going to be particularly affable in the morning, but Chris was determined to make sure Pritchard felt the worst. The aches and pains in his own head were already making themselves known, a loud rushing noise in his ears crowding in on the disjunction of his eyes.

Actually. That rushing was becoming a roaring. Chris stumbled to a stop, gut screaming at him to turn around. 

The sight behind him had his eyes swimming worse than the blow to the head. The whole horizon itself surged and swayed like the seething masses of a stampede.

"Fuck! Ezra, run!" Chris turned back around and started running—towards Ezra, rather than the safety of the embankment. "God damn it, Ezra, run!"

Ezra had managed to pry himself away from Pritchard's hooks long enough to climb to his knees. He looked up at Chris's shout—and even from a distance, Chris could see the way his eyes widened with fear as he took in what Chris had seen: a deep black mass flowing down the arroyo, speeding their way faster than a train.

Pritchard took advantage of Ezra's distraction. With a move more agile than Chris would have ever given him credit for, he had Ezra back on the ground, struggling overpower him.

"Pritchard, you fucker!" Chris screamed, his gut turning liquid in a way he hadn't felt since he first rode over the rise to his ranch and spotted far too much smoke. "Flash flood! Run!"

The roaring was loud enough now that Chris had no idea if his shouts had carried over the flood. He didn't dare look back to see how close he was to being caught up in the maelstrom himself; he just ran, trying to close the last few feet between him and Ezra, the metallic taste of wet earth already in the air, coating his tongue and clogging his throat.

_Get up, get up, get up._ Chris didn't waste any more air on yelling, but the words pounded through his thoughts with each strike of his foot. Ezra had wound up flat on his back once more. Pritchard was trying to get at Ezra's Remington, fingers scrabbling at the thigh holster while Ezra fought him off. For a few seconds they were frozen in a tableau, a near perfect opportunity for Chris to take aim—but he didn't dare spare the effort. The roaring of the debris-filled water was loud enough now to drown out the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

They were out of time.

Ezra drew his knee back tight to his chest and then kicked out hard, straight into Pritchard, sending him flying. 

Finding another burst of speed Chris didn't know he had in him, he was at Ezra's side in a blink of an eye, catching hold of him by the upper arm and hauling him up. They stumbled for half a breath, and then raced off, side-by-side, towards the shallow embankment. They couldn't outrun the flood as it raced down the arroyo, but Chris hoped like hell they had enough time left to sidestep its path.

Gravel and grit bit at his fingers as they hauled each other out, his left hand braced under Ezra's upper arm, Ezra's right hand hooked into Chris's belt. Something knocked hard against his ankle, sending him sprawling, just as a spray of muddy water caught him in the side of the face. Ezra followed him down to the hardpan, crumpling to his knees—but they were out of the path of the unstoppable force of the flood. Safe enough for a breath, at least, but not far enough out of its range to truly declare themselves safe.

"Hell," Ezra breathed, slowly picking himself up. Muddy water painted the white sleeves of Ezra's fancy shirt, and Chris's own jeans were uncomfortably damp as he picked himself up as well.

They took a couple steps back, wary of the dirt beneath their feet, and then just stood there, staring out at the turbulence they'd escaped. The flood wasn't so much water as it was a mass of moving debris. The deluge had to have come from the western range, fed by a sister storm of the one Chris had spotted earlier in the evening. The runoff had picked up branches and muck as it made its journey out of the mountains, turning it into a bludgeoning mass that filled the shallow wash.

"Come on," he finally said, hooking a hand around the back of Ezra's neck. If he let it rest there a few seconds longer than what could be rightly considered within the normal boundaries of friendship, well, he wasn't concerned about that at the moment. "It's not safe this close. The bank could give way."

Ezra nodded, then tipped his chin up. "I say we might want to put more than a little distance between ourselves and this area." 

Chris followed his gaze up towards the moon, spotting what Ezra had: yet another thick band of clouds moving in. Apparently, the monsoons had come early this year.

"Ain't much high ground around that we can get to," Chris said, because of course they'd wound up on the wrong side of the wash from the mountains. Lucky enough that they'd managed to come out on the same side as their camp. "But let's see what we can find before it hits."

Ezra nodded, then glanced downstream. "I assume that it's unlikely our Mr. Pritchard survived his encounter with Mother Nature's wrath."

Chris looked back to the churning water. The level hadn't dropped any, and was perhaps surging an inch or two higher than it had been a moment ago. "No one could have survived that."

Maybe something in his own tone gave away that he hadn't been thinking of Pritchard, or maybe it was just that Ezra's own thoughts naturally turned the same direction. Either way, Ezra stepped in close enough that their sides pressed together. Chris dropped his hand down, letting it settle on Ezra's shoulder. They needed to get moving, but both of them seemed mesmerized by the water, unable to leave the sight behind.

Ezra sighed heavily. "Judge Travis will be less than pleased."

"I'm sure, but Pritchard signed his own death warrant. We'll look for his body in the morning." Maybe he should feel worse about Pritchard than he did, but it was hard to find pity for the man after what he'd put the two of them through. Chris set his hand between Ezra's shoulder blades, coaxing him to turn away from the still surging arroyo. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

They made their way back to camp, less gracefully than they usually moved, both of them exhausted by their mad race and violent encounters with Pritchard. The camp was undisturbed—but situated a mere five feet from the bank of the seething wash. Thankfully, the horses hadn't jumped their leads, though they were kicking up, understandably nervous. It was a moment's work to stamp out the embers of their campfire and pack up their bedrolls. They were just mounting up when the first drops struck, fat and heavy enough to foretell one hell of a storm.

"I simply don't understand," Ezra said after they'd been riding a few minutes.

"Hmm?" Chris asked, most of his attention set on scanning the area for a better campsite, eyes squinted as he tried to pull details out of the dark. The effort didn't help the pounding in his head none, but the sooner he found something, the sooner he'd be able to close his eyes and rest.

"Why'd Pritchard do it?"

Chris shrugged. "I guess he was more scared of what would happen if he turned on the rest of his gang than we thought he was."

"I understand that," Ezra said. "But surely he didn't think he'd be better off in the middle of the desert without a horse or supplies? Presupposing that he'd be able to outrun the both of us, that is."

"Maybe, maybe not. Desperation can make a man do dumb things aplenty." Chris looked over at Ezra, who was uncharacteristically hunched in the saddle. Guarding against the rain, undoubtedly; he'd put his hat on, but not his jacket, and there was enough rain now that the muddy streaks were starting to wash out of his white sleeves. Chris thought there was more to his posture than the cold and wet, however. "I think, though, that he underestimated you."

Ezra chuckled sourly. "Because he thought me nothing more than a useless fop."

"It's not your fault that he couldn't see past his own assumptions," Chris said. "Don't take his death on yourself."

"I'm not." Ezra's pinched mouth said otherwise, but after a moment he sighed and shook his head. "I'm certainly not mourning the man. It's just...the vagaries of fate are a frightening thing, are they not? How one decision can lead to a whole host of outcomes we never would have anticipated for ourselves."

"That they are," Chris murmured, probably not loud enough for Ezra to hear. He wanted to tell him that it wasn't worth dwelling on those kinds of questions, but he knew from experience that it wasn't the kind of thing you could force your mind away from just because you wanted to. He'd spent too much of his past inside a whiskey bottle, trying to avoid thinking about fate's fickle hand.

Still. It felt wrong to leave that thought between them, like a bit of cloth left to fester in a wound.

"I reckon it goes both ways, though," he said, raising his voice enough to be heard. "Like that time a few years back I decided to track down an old friend of mine. Didn't really have anything in mind other than to keep drinking until I stopped caring about everything. Never could have imagined that I'd wind up with five more friends, and a whole new reason to care."

There was just enough moonlight leaking through the clouds that Chris could make out the quick flash of Ezra's grin. "I take it you've never mentioned this fact to Buck, or else we'd have never heard the end of it."

"You take that right," Chris said. "And he's never gonna hear one word of it, right?"

"Your lips to God's ears." An avowal like that was almost a guarantee that Ezra would be using Chris's declaration against him at a later date, but Chris let it go, chuckling along with Ezra as they continued on into the night.

* * *

Ezra thought they'd only ridden for quarter of an hour, perhaps slightly more, when Chris decided that one particular cluster of boulders slightly higher than the rest would serve well enough for their second camp of the night. Despite the short length of their journey, he was soaked to the bone by the time he dismounted, his hands so thoroughly chilled that unsaddling his horse was slow, agonizing work. Chris couldn't have been any better off, but by the time Ezra had finished, Chris had secured their tarp into a makeshift lean-to against the boulders and was well on his way to starting a fire beneath it.

"You, sir, are a miracle worker," Ezra said as the damp twigs finally caught.

Chris's eyes twinkled in the light as he looked up, lips sliding into a smile. He said something, but Ezra didn't catch it, too caught up in admiring the man's beauty. They'd both come close to dying before, far too many times to count, but something about tonight's misadventure had knocked all the good sense out of his head.

Chris arched an eyebrow, looking more amused than put out by Ezra's woolgathering.

"Beg pardon," Ezra said, "I didn't catch that."

"I said," Chris drawled, patronizingly slow, "that you need to get your ass under here instead of standing out in the rain like a ninny."

"So flattering," Ezra murmured, but he heeded Chris's advice. The space Chris had eked out between the boulders was tight for the two of them, the ground still damp, but Ezra was glad for it. He wasn't sure if the chill would ever leave his bones, but it was already warmer under the tarp, despite the fact that the campfire was barely big enough to give off light. 

He hesitated briefly over the state of his clothing, but there was really only one true path to warmth. His fingers were barely more cooperative on the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt than they'd been on his tack. A momentary fantasy passed before his vision, but he quickly dismissed the idea of asking Chris for assistance. _If_ they ever reached that stage in their acquaintanceship, he wanted it to be while he could return the gesture with smooth assurance.

Once waistcoat and shirt were dispatched to a nearby boulder, he retrieved his wool jacket from his saddlebag, deciding to leave aside his spare shirt for facing the judge tomorrow. The jacket by itself wasn't the most comfortable sensation, settled directly against his skin as it was, but at least it was warm and dry. 

"I do believe I'd be the envy of the elite," he said as he squeezed in beside Chris. "Why, in a year or two, I imagine this look will be all the rage in St. Louis."

Chris grinned. "I'll have to take your word when it comes to fashion. You're the expert, after all."

"Yes, that's me," Ezra murmured, the joke souring as it brought Pritchard back to mind. Chris's thoughts seemed to bend in the same direction, to judge by the way the smile fell off his face as he returned to staring into the fire. Out of habit more than any true desire, Ezra stretched to retrieve his waistcoat, fishing in the front pocket for the traveling deck he always carried there.

What he withdrew was nothing more than a package of mush. Oatmeal had more structural integrity.

"Well, that's just lovely," he muttered as he attempted to open the pack. He wasn't sure how it had gotten quite so soaked—the rain wasn't _that_ heavy, and he'd thought the floodwaters had caught only his backside—but the damage reached nearly to the center of the deck. Far beyond salvaging. "I don't suppose Judge Travis will be any more amenable to compensating my expenses than he usually is."

Chris snorted. "I reckon he'll be quite a bit less disposed than usual, actually."

"Unfortunately, I suspect you're right." Ezra sighed heavily. He returned the mushy pack to the pocket, where the cards would do little to dry out but wouldn't be lost underfoot. Perhaps he'd manage to salvage a few for future endeavors. Extra aces were always useful. Or perhaps the whole pack would wind up serving as tinder for a campfire, though he hoped the circumstances wouldn't be as dire as those tonight. He was tempted to flick the cards in right now, one by one, simply to give himself something to do, but he suspected they'd merely sizzle and spit and threaten to consume the flames.

The rain, at least, was tapering off, as it tended to do in this part of the country as the night deepened. It was certainly well into his own watch, though Ezra was fairly sure he could make a case for not setting one, between Pritchard's demise and the dastardly weather. Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, he didn't bother to bring it up. Chris showed no signs of wanting to sleep, and Ezra knew that if he attempted to lay down while Chris was unsettled, sleep would elude him as well.

Apparently, they were doomed to sit the watch together.

Without cards at hand, he had nothing to distract him from studying Chris's profile. The part of him that normally would have screamed the need for circumspection had been soundly silenced. As his own eyes traced over the valleys and plains of Chris's face, he couldn't help but reflect on the way Chris's gaze had met his over the past several months. The way Chris had quietly sidled up to him two days ago, asking, rather than ordering, Ezra to accompany him on this fool's journey.

The way fear had filled Chris's voice as he screamed out his warning of the flash flood.

When Ezra reached out, it was without hesitation. He moved slowly, so not to startle Chris, and gently, certain that the darkness he'd spotted wasn't a result of the shadows. Chris turned into his touch, following the guidance of Ezra's hand on his chin.

Ezra sighed, the new angle confirming his suspicions. "I dare say our dearly departed friend clocked you good."

Chris nodded, slightly enough that he didn't disturb Ezra's hold. "Smacked me right in the temple with the cuffs. I saw stars long enough that I couldn't get a bead on him."

"I'd wondered how he got the drop on you." Ezra softened his hold, letting Chris turn to face him more squarely, evening whiskers rasping against the pads of Ezra's fingers as he did so. "How's your head now?"

"It hurts, to tell the truth," Chris said, his voice raspier than usual. "But I can see straight, which is all I care about."

"That's good," Ezra murmured. He tipped Chris's chin again, trying to take in the state of his eyes without getting lost in their depths. "You don't look confounded."

Chris grinned at that, the muscles of his cheeks fluttering under Ezra's hand. "High praise." 

"Given what I've experienced of the mental abilities of the general population," Ezra said, unable to resist the urge to trace those muscles with his thumb, "it's high praise, indeed."

"What about you?" Chris asked, his smile fading away. "Didn't look like Pritchard was pulling his punches none."

"I suspect I have several contusions that will make their presence known in the morning," Ezra said. He vaguely recalled taking an elbow to the jaw, but none of his teeth were loose and the rest of him seemed to be in one piece, as well. "Truthfully, it's the chill and the damp that's bothering me at the moment."

Chris's cheek twitched again. "Your hand _is_ a mite cold."

Ezra withdrew, grimacing. "My apologies."

"Wasn't complainin', just observin'." And then Chris was the one who reached out, catching Ezra's fingers in his own. "See? Could use a little warmin' up."

"You are right, as always," he managed, though how he wasn't sure, as Chris began to gently chafe his hand between both of his. Ezra almost regretted the return of warmth to his skin, because as soon as Chris noticed, he let go.

"Better?"

"Significantly." Ezra swallowed, and then was forced to swallow again when he noticed the way Chris's gaze dropped to his lips. "Although now I find my other hand all the colder for it."

"Well, we can't have that, now," Chris said. "Wouldn't want those nimble fingers of yours to lose any of their dexterity."

"I have been struggling." Ezra held his other hand out, mesmerized as Chris took it without hesitation. Instead of chafing it, however, Chris brought their joined hands up to his mouth—and gently huffed a warm breath across Ezra's skin.

"Oh, Lord." Ezra licked his lips. "Chris…."

"You know one of the things I admire most about you?"

Startled, Ezra finally tore his gaze away from their hands, looking up to Chris's eyes, which were glittering—from the firelight, and more. "Please, do tell."

"It took me a while to see it, because you've got your mama's voice inside, always telling you to protect yourself first." Chris's breath skated over Ezra's skin with each word, warming more than his hand. "But I ain't ever known you to be a coward. Every damn time you've run away from something that scared you, you've always turned around and met it head on, fiercer than ever."

For a moment, all Ezra could do was breathe, his whole chest aching as if he'd swallowed a lungful of water. He'd never known that gaining something he'd always wanted could feel so physically overwhelming. As Chris continued to watch him with patient eyes, he felt the courage that Chris had spoken of settle deep into his bones.

"Well, then," he said, deepening his drawl. "Let me endeavor to maintain your admiration." 

He slipped his fingers out of Chris's grip, reaching up to guide his head down to Ezra's. They paused before their lips met, noses brushing gently as they negotiated the space between them. Their first kiss was barely more than a soft meeting of lips. Ezra curled his hand more firmly around the base of Chris's skull, and then they moved as one, enough heat flaring between them to chase away even the memory of cold and damp. They kissed and kissed, trading dominance back and forth between them, until one of Chris's hands made its way between the lapels of his jacket. 

Ezra broke away with a gasp.

"My hand too cold?" Chris asked with a smirk, fingers traveling delightfully downwards.

"Not in the least." For a moment, Ezra simply reveled in being touched, until Chris's thumb grazed across his nipple and sparked a blazing need. He caught hold of Chris's wrist, reluctantly dragging his hand away. "Not that I wasn't enjoying that immensely, but I'd rather delay this to a more opportune moment."

Chris's eyebrows shot up. "More opportune than nobody around for half a day's ride?"

"As excellent as your point is," Ezra said, already half regretting his decision. "I'd prefer that we were both dry and warm, and that I could tell whether the way you keep squinting at me is because of the dark or because of the pain in your head."

Chris chuckled, then dipped in close for another lingering kiss. "All right," he said as he pulled back. "Fair enough. But tomorrow, once we take care of business, I don't care if we wind up back under the stars or in a fancy feather bed, 'cause one way or another, I'm gonna peel every last stitch of clothing off of you and show you exactly what I think of the man underneath."

"Oh, my," Ezra said faintly. "That sounds positively…." _Delightful_ didn't quite capture the degree to which he was looking forward to Chris's scenario, but neither did 'enchanting' nor 'lovely.' Before Ezra could settle on a choice, Chris kissed him again, chasing all of the words out of his head.

END


End file.
